


The Persistence of Dreams

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Character Death, Flashbacks, Gen, Hope, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, Hurt/Comfort, Literary References, Memory Loss, Non-Linear Narrative, Regulus Black Lives, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26876182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Regulus Black survived the cave, but not without consequence. Sixteen years later, the past has caught up to him, and he has little choice but to confront the world he left behind.
Relationships: Regulus Black & Sirius Black
Comments: 27
Kudos: 139
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tag suggestions are very much appreciated, because I’m honestly not sure if this thing needs warnings or not. But since this does involve Horcruxes, some parts are intended to be . . . vaguely eerie and creepy. Because Horcruxes are inherently eerie and creepy.
> 
> Hope you enjoy and please tell me what you think!

_"There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after."_

— J. R. R. Tolkien, _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again_

_It's a funny thing_ , he thought, _to go to your death._

Regulus had known it was inevitable, from the moment his parents had sat him down and explained what they wanted of him. He had accepted, he had been foolishly willing, though he had known even then he might not survive the war if he did. But it hadn't mattered, because it would be for family and loyalty and blood — all the things he had been taught, everything he had grown up believing.

What an honour it would be, he had thought then, to die for one's beliefs.

The irony wasn't lost on him as he finished his letter, signing his initials with a flourish. This was it: his last message, his confession. He had agonized over it, chosen every word with care. Words had power, after all, and names were their own kind of spells.

It was why Regulus couldn't bring himself to use his own. He might be too proud to die unspoken, but he knew his mother would be happier never knowing that a Black, her own loyal son, had betrayed the Dark Lord. More than that, he knew she would be safer in ignorance.

With a pang, he wondered how she would react to his disappearance. She had never been the same since his father died, her grief so all-consuming that now she couldn't bear to look at the tapestry. With him gone, Grimmauld Place would have no heirs left, because Sirius certainly didn't want it, had never wanted it, nor did he care for the little that was left of their family —

_Sirius._

Regulus would always regret Sirius — he regretted being related to him and he regretted wishing he wasn't. He had never understood why Sirius had cut them all out of his life so completely. He had never understood how Sirius could have so much loyalty to his friends, so much faith in friendship, but too little in family. For the longest time, Regulus had wondered what was so wrong with him that his own brother had left him behind, and he carried the wound with him still.

Regulus stared at the letter again. If this was to be what was left of him, this one-finger salute to the Dark Lord . . . well, what an honour it would be. There were worse ways to die.

But Sirius would never know. The one thing that could have redeemed him in his eyes, and Sirius would never know.

It wasn't fair.

And yet it didn't matter. The clock was chiming the hour, calling him to his grave. It was too late for reconciliation.

"Kreacher," said Regulus, and the house-elf appeared by his side, wringing his hands nervously.

"Kreacher is here, Master Regulus. What would Master Regulus have Kreacher do?"

Something squirmed uncomfortably in Regulus' stomach. A wave of loneliness washed over him as he realized that the only one who had ever given him the most unconditional affection was Kreacher, not his parents or his brother.

It was cruel, what he intended to do.

"Listen to me, Kreacher," whispered Regulus, kneeling so that their eyes were level. "I need you to do exactly as I say . . ."

* * *

It started very simply: an innocuous question about his name.

Regulus had taken a temping job at a library. It was rather dull, if he was being honest. But a job was a job, and one that required little more than scanning books and making the occasional small talk was better than not paying rent, so here he was.

The staff was nice enough. Regulus had become fast friends with one of the librarians — or, more accurately, Sofia made fast friends with anyone and everyone, and he was lucky enough to be in the vicinity. She talked his ear off on his first day, about books, books, and even more books, and was aghast when he admitted he hadn't heard most of the titles she was going on about. The next morning, she gave him a lengthy, detailed list of books to read and her own dog-eared copy of _The Hobbit_ , and Regulus was too bewildered to do anything but accept.

He had just begun reading when a young girl with dark skin and ringlet curls dropped an armful of books onto the counter. She was beaming as she peered at his nametag.

"It's like the star," she said.

Regulus scanned the barcode of the first book and raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

The girl — Amelia Taylor, according to her library card — took one of the books from the stack and opened it on a page with a star map. "Regulus the star," she said, pointing in emphasis. "See? Alpha Leonis. It's the brightest star in the constellation Leo. Do you think your parents named you that on purpose?"

His eyes swept across the page. The print was so small that he could barely read the names, and he felt a dull headache start to gnaw at his temples. "I don't know if they thought of that. I never met them."

Amelia's face fell.

"But it's fine," said Regulus quickly, scanning the rest of the books. "I don't mind not knowing. About my name, I mean. Or my parents either."

Times like these reminded him why he was never going to have kids. One second he was scrambling for something to say to them, the next he was putting his foot in his mouth and babbling to an eleven-year-old.

Amelia hastily stuffed the books into her bag, not meeting his eyes, no doubt thinking he was mental or something. Regulus watched her go, then went looking for some aspirin to quell the pounding in his head.

Awkward though the encounter had been, he found himself thinking about it on his way back to his flat. Not Amelia Taylor — though he did spare a moment to bemoan his dreadful conversational skills — but the star map she had shown him. Those names, those stars and constellations . . . he couldn't shake the feeling that he should have known them. Memorized them, even.

Here in London, the city lights drowned out the stars, but Regulus could imagine autumn afternoons poring over star charts and summer evenings tracing those same constellations in the sky. He could remember going on holidays with his cousins to a manor in the countryside, where they helped him learn the names until he could rattle them off at the top of his head. The thought gave him a sense of nostalgia, like walking through an attic and blowing dust off old family photos.

Except he didn't have old family photos. He didn't have any family that he knew of, let alone cousins to go on holidays with. Regulus had jumped from foster home to foster home until he outgrew the system. He'd been in a car accident not long after, leaving him with a bad scar on his arm and a fear of deep waters.

It was just his imagination, running away with him, filling the gaps in his memory with make-believe. No wonder Rani laughed at him so often for having his head in the clouds —

Regulus straightened up suddenly, looking around him.

A strange prickling at the back of his neck had made him feel like he was being watched, but now, as he stood in front of his building, he couldn't find anything particularly suspicious. Tottenham Court Road was as busy as it ever was, with late-night revellers and pub-goers filling the street and a cat lurking in the shadowy alleyway —

No . . . not a cat. . . . It looked like a dog, except . . .

Regulus squinted at the black alley. He could just make out a hulking outline . . . something very big, with wide, gleaming eyes —

_A Grim_ , he thought, though he didn't know where the word had come from. Maybe he had gotten it from Sofia's book or read it from her list.

Whatever it was, it was still just a dog. The light was playing tricks on him, making it seem bigger than it actually was.

Regulus shook his head, chuckling to himself as he entered his building. _Just your imagination . . ._

* * *

Sometimes, Regulus had strange dreams.

All sorts of things, really — the kind that sounded juvenile when said aloud. He dreamt of fire and water and bright marks in the sky, of a dark gloomy house and a great sprawling castle, of Latin words and chants he could never remember when he woke. There were recurring characters — masked men in dark robes . . . a pale red-eyed man . . . people with the same eyes as Regulus, or the same nose, or chin, or smile . . .

He joked with Rani that he ought to write books about them; the dreams were certainly more interesting than real life. No A-levels, no prospects, just a temping job and a life so boring he couldn't remember half of it — that was his reality.

Nothing ever happened to Regulus, nothing exciting or noteworthy. The only thing he could think of, the only relatively exciting thing to happen in recent memory, was that time he thought he was going to get mugged, and even that hadn't been real. Some bloke had grabbed him out in the street a few months ago, only to let go once he saw Regulus' face. The man had been speechless with shock; clearly, he had mistaken Regulus for someone else. Regulus had walked away with little fuss, and that was that.

Nothing ever happened to him. Nothing at all.

* * *

Regulus was drowning.

It _hurt_ and it went on forever, this helpless, breathless feeling, no air, no anchor, just the heavy weight of the water surrounding him, everywhere at once, his mouth, his lungs, his eyes, his ears, every inch of skin, rushing in, pushing him down down down —

Rotten teeth digging into his flesh, gnarled nails scratching at his eyes, long fingers gouging, twisting, pulling and —

He was going to die here, in the arms of the living dead. His body was going to rot in the bottom of a nameless lake.

He had thought he could do it. He had thought he could meet the end with some semblance of bravery, with something like dignity. But all around him were the faces of people he terrorised, tortured, killed, families he tore apart, ideals he betrayed — and it was all his fault, he had done this, he made this, he dug his own grave. It dawned on him, this cold and hard truth, that not even in death would he find peace, because he didn't deserve peace, his soul was damned and tainted and damaged, and all that he would have with him in the afterlife was this pain, again and again for all eternity, never-ending suffering for a killer, traitor, foolish boy, _perfect son_ —

Snapshots of a life never lived flashed before him, all at once: he would never grow old, would never find a job, would never buy his own house, would never fall in love, would never marry and have kids of his own, would never see the world, would never reach his dreams, would never _find out_ his dreams —

He would never see Sirius again. Or Mother, or Kreacher, or Andromeda —

_I don't want to go_ , he realized suddenly, desperately, childishly.

And then he was screaming, clawing at the hands around him, attacking whatever they could reach, anything to get out of the water, to the shore, to safety. He shoved against the Inferi crowding him, swimming as hard as he could, because he was wrong, _wrong_ , he wasn't made for this, for bravery, he didn't want to die, there was still so much he had to do, wanted to do, and he had to stay awake, not sleep, not yet, not here —

Far above he could see the light, and if only he could reach it, he just had to —

The tip of his fingers broke into the air.

But his legs were weak, his eyelids heavy, and there was nothing but water in his lungs, and cold grey hands were closing around his ankles and —

* * *

The library was quiet and warm, compared to the biting chill outside. Only half of the fluorescent lights were on overhead and Regulus could feel his eyelids fluttering. Not even an hour into his shift, but already the fatigue made him feel as though he had been there for hours.

"What did you think?"

Regulus glanced up slowly to find Sofia looking at him with a wide grin. "Sorry?"

She rolled her eyes with mock exasperation. "The book, you numpty. What did you think of it?"

"It's nice," said Regulus. He pushed the return cart throughout aisles of bookshelves, Sofia trailing after him. "The elves are all wrong though, aren't they? I thought they were supposed to be short, tiny men who do chores."

"Not Tolkien's elves," she said, giggling. "I used to be obsessed with them, you know. I made my mum read me the books every night until I was . . . ooh, seven, I think."

He grinned. "That's adorable. I was like that with Beedle the Bard, except it wasn't Mother who —"

"Beedle the Bard?" she repeated. A tiny crinkle appeared in her forehead. "Cute name for a storybook. Is it like Shakespeare for kids?"

"A bit like that, yeah. You've never heard of him?"

"Should I have?"

"Come off it!" He snuggled a book in between two others on the shelf, laughing as Sofia continued to stare at him blankly. "He's famous. All the old children's stories are supposed to be his. Like . . ."

Regulus trailed off, his mouth open an embarrassing second too long as the words died on the tip of his tongue. It felt like he was groping in the dark for the light switch, only to hit the wall and stub his toe on the furniture. _I had it_ , he thought. It was there, he was sure of it, buried somewhere in his brain and slipping through the cracks of his memory, if only he could —

"Like?" prompted Sofia.

"I can't remember," he said, suddenly feeling daft.

"Maybe you're thinking of someone else? Like Brothers Grimm or Charles Perrault —"

"Maybe," Regulus muttered, then caught Sofia frowning at him. He smiled apologetically. "Sorry. Couldn't sleep last night."

"No wonder you've been out of sorts," she tutted. "I'll finish up here. You go hide in the staff room and make yourself some tea. I promise no one's going to notice."

He was too tired to argue. Last night's dream had kept him awake and restless, and even thinking about it made his head hurt. There wasn't much he remembered from the nightmare, only the damp cave and the black waters, but he was certain there was someone else with him. An elf, but not like the ones in _The Hobbit_ . . . an odd-looking creature with a bulbous nose and bat-like ears, and it had said something about a locket —

The headache that had been brewing for some time now reached a sharp spike, and Regulus massaged his temple gently.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll put the kettle on."

* * *

The dog was there again. On the alleyway across his building, exactly where it had been before.

It was hard to see in the dark. Regulus wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been looking, though he didn't know why he was looking to begin with.

A Grim, he had called it. He didn't know why he had done that either, but the name seemed appropriate, whatever it meant.

For a moment, Regulus considered setting his groceries down on the steps and approaching the dog, just to take a closer look. He didn't know the first thing about dogs, but he was certain that one as massive as this was unusual. Was it some new breed? Were its owners looking for it? How was it even possible to lose a dog that size?

"Regulus, dear, what are you standing out here for?"

It was his landlady, a portly, elderly woman with greying hair and thick glasses. She was staring at him with that frown of hers, the one that made her look sterner and more irritable than she really was, and one that made him feel like he had been caught doing something wrong.

"Just thinking, Mrs. Castillo," said Regulus. "Got lost in thought for a moment there."

"Well, come on in before you catch your death. You're all skin and bones, dear."

Regulus cast one last glance at the alley — it was empty now, no sign anyone or anything had been there at all — then let himself be ushered through the threshold.

"Oh, that reminds me," Mrs. Castillo was saying. "A man came by this afternoon, looking to see you. Bit rude, he was, if you don't mind my saying. Didn't even give a name. He was quite cross when I told him you were out."

"What did he want?"

"Didn't say, I'm afraid. Though he seemed to be in a rush — dressed like he had somewhere important to be. Rather sour-looking though, and around your age, I should think."

Regulus ran through his list of acquaintances. The few who fit Mrs. Castillo's description were old colleagues from his previous temp jobs, and he couldn't imagine any of them going out of their way to visit him.

"Probably just a salesman," he said as he reached the door to his flat.

"Oh, I know the sort," said Mrs. Castillo sagely. "No wonder he looked so glum, that poor man."

Regulus smiled politely, bid her a good evening, and stepped inside his flat. He busied himself with unpacking the groceries, and only when he had finished that he realized the television was on, hissing and showing static.

_Bugger_ , he thought. He could have sworn he had turned it off this morning.

Regulus left the kitchen and set about looking for the remote. It wasn't on the coffee table . . . or the settee. . . . Sighing, he bent down to peer under the couch —

"Master Regulus must drink!"

Regulus stood up at once.

"Kreacher is sorry! Kreacher is a bad elf —"

The voice was coming from the television, and it sounded old, hoarse and deep like a bullfrog's, and . . . it was _familiar_ , somehow. He was certain he had heard it before.

"Kreacher is sorry but Master Regulus ordered — Master Regulus said — Master Regulus _must_!"

A sudden desperate terror seized him, making it difficult to breathe. Vaguely, Regulus was aware that he was now kneeling in front of the television, that his hands were shaking uselessly at his sides, that his heart was hammering wildly in his ears.

"What?" he heard himself say. "What should I do?"

"Master Regulus must drink!" came the rasping voice, panicked and close to tears. "Master Regulus must finish!"

Regulus' throat burned, raw and tight as if something was clamping it shut. "Drink what?"

"Master Regulus must wake up!"

"What — I don't —"

"Kreacher is a bad elf and will punish himself, but please, Master Regulus, wake up!"

"But you said —"

"Kreacher is sorry, Master Regulus. Kreacher is sorry, Kreacher is sorry, Kreacher is sorry —"

"Shut up!" cried Regulus, his voice shrill and manic, his body trembling and sluggish with fear. "You're saying all these things, but I don't understand! What do I need to do? Tell me, Kreacher, what do I need to do?"

There was a pause, so sudden and so immediate that at first he wasn't sure what had happened, and then —

"Master Regulus must wake up."

* * *

Luchino Caffe was a small, shabby all-night café only a five-minute walk from his flat. Regulus had found it while on a midnight stroll, during a terrible bout of insomnia. He had spent the rest of the night swapping stories with the waitress, and he and Rani had been friends ever since.

"Any good?" said Rani, nodding at the book in his hands as she set down a cup of black coffee. As always, her dark hair was twisted up in a bun, a pencil stuck through to hold it in place.

Regulus set _The Hobbit_ aside and took a sip of the coffee. "It's riveting."

"Must be. You've been staring at the same page for the past ten minutes."

"I'm a slow reader."

She regarded him warily, her eyebrows furrowed. "Is that why you look like shit? Too riveted by Tolkien to sleep?"

"Gee, thanks," he said dryly. "And you wonder why no one tips you."

" _You_ tip. Because you're just that nice."

He scoffed. "Try again."

"Because I give such great advice."

"Says who?"

She looked around the empty café, throwing her arms out exaggeratedly. "My many satisfied customers."

Regulus snickered despite himself.

"Let me guess," said Rani as she dropped into the seat across from him, stretching her feet out onto the neighbouring chair. "Bad night?"

"Bad dream."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

His stomach twisted. "I thought the telly was talking to me," he said after a long moment. "And then I thought I was drowning."

"Was it the accident?" she asked softly. "Were you dreaming about it again?"

_No, it wasn't that_ , Regulus wanted to say. _It was something else._

Except he didn't know what that something else was. His accident — about sixteen years ago now, if he was remembering it right — was the only time he had nearly drowned, but he was certain it hadn't been his dream. The dream had felt different, more real, but he couldn't say how that was.

"Yeah," Regulus said instead. "But it'll pass. It always does."

* * *

It didn't.

One morning, he heard another voice, different from the first but still inexplicably familiar.

"The time is now, Regulus Black," it said, clear and precise through the static. "Are you still afraid?"

Regulus froze in place. An image rose in his mind, one of the characters from his dream — the tall, thin man with a white, snakelike face and gleaming red eyes.

"I do not forgive, Regulus. I do not forget."

When he finally managed to unglue himself from his seat, Regulus found the television unplugged from its socket, the screen pitch black.

He heard it again two days later. This time, it came from the broken wireless on the mantel.

"Do you wish to serve?" said the high, cold voice. "Do you wish to be a part of something far greater than yourself?"

The voice slithered down Regulus's spine, making him shudder. _Mother sounded like that_ , he thought, remembering when his brother had left, and he had been named heir and the name on the tapestry had been —

"Will you be loyal, Regulus? Will you fight in my name?"

Trancelike, Regulus realized he was no longer in his flat. He was in a clearing, his knees pressed on the soft grass, and the starless sky above seemed to go on forever. There were others, garbed in masks and robes, standing on the fringes of the firelight.

At the centre of it all was the pale man. His face was cast in the red glow of the fire and yet still he was bleeding into the darkness.

"Will you die in my name?" he murmured.

Regulus looked up at the man through a kind of mist, praying desperately that the dread in his chest wasn't splayed across his features.

"Y-yes," said Regulus, his first wretched reflex. The words were fighting their way free, nauseating him. "Yes, my Lord."

"Very well."

A white hand came down and snatched his wrist, and then there was a mark appearing on his arm, spreading like ink on parchment, _burning_ —

Regulus awoke with a start.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, and he could feel the hollow thumping of his heart, the cold sweat sliding down his skin. He held still, listening to his own breath rasping in the ringing silence.

* * *

"What do you know about black dogs?" said Regulus over lunch, watching as Sofia drizzled an ungodly amount of ketchup on her chips.

Stupid as it was, he was reminded of his dream. The clouds of red rising from the cut on his arm, the blood attracting more of the dead, of those cold, slimy hands pulling, pushing, dragging him under —

Sofia, oblivious, shoved a chip in her mouth. "Why? Planning on getting one? I'm more of a cat person myself."

"No, I mean like books and things. If you know any stories about them . . ."

"As in, dogs as characters? Fables?"

"If you like."

"I can think of some," said Sofia thoughtfully. "Why the sudden interest?"

Because he had seen the dog again the night before — and the night before that, and the night before that.

Because he had seen it outside the café, the last time he spoke to Rani, and he had nearly spilled his coffee in shock. Then again at a bus stop, when he had been taking shelter from the rain, he had heard a deep rumbling growl not unlike the thunder, and he had seen it, on a poorly lit side street, thoroughly sodden. And then this morning at work, when he had glanced outside the window, it had been there, utterly still and looking up with attentive eyes.

Always the same dog, hiding in the shadows.

_Because for some reason it's been following me,_ he thought. _As daft as it sounds, it's like it's waiting. Like it wants something. And maybe if I can find out what, I'll stop hearing voices and get a decent night's sleep._

"No reason," said Regulus, shrugging. "Idle curiosity, I suppose."

"Hmm . . . I'll add it to the list."

* * *

— a hand, small and achingly familiar, dragging him forward, dragging him _up._

"Master Regulus must wake up!"

A voice. That was familiar too.

And frankly, it sounded ridiculous. Regulus had never felt more exhausted in his life, and to even open his eyes felt like a chore compared to the weightlessness of the water. Everything felt too heavy, as if gravity was pulling him down, keeping him in place, trapped on this godforsaken rock on this bloody, godforsaken lake.

And he was burning — his lungs, his throat, his _Mark._

But he had done it. In his hand was the locket, the sliver of the Dark Lord's soul, and he could _feel_ it. He knew Dark Magic, had known it for as long as he could remember, and this was the darkest of all — an empty void without light or warmth, a hollow nothingness, creeping and expanding from this heavy golden heirloom.

At least he had done one thing right.

"Kreacher is sorry, Kreacher is sorry, Kreacher is sorry —"

Regulus could feel Kreacher tending to his arm, with bandages and potions and spells, and he wanted to tell him not to bother, that it was too late. He may have cut up his Mark like a sacrificial lamb, but of course it wouldn't keep the Dark Lord's Summon at bay.

He forced himself to think past the tearing, burning pain. His throat was dry, and his mouth tasted of blood and decay, something like poison, something like algae from the lake.

This wasn't the plan. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The Dark Lord would know what he had done, and the lake would have been kinder.

"I can't go back," Regulus tried to say, to plead, as the Mark continued to burn and twist and crawl under his skin. "Don't let me go back."


	2. Chapter 2

_"The past and the present are within my field of inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer."_

— Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Hound of the Baskervilles_

There were footsteps creeping towards his door. A creak in the hall, a silence, then more soft steps.

In his half-asleep state, Regulus almost didn't hear them. If he didn't know any better, he would have said they sounded indecisive, but he knew only one person brave enough to still be up and about at this hour, and his brother was certainly anything but.

The knob turned, the door swung open, footsteps padded over the carpet, and then —

"Wake up, Reggie," came Sirius' voice, barely above a whisper. "The sky's awake."

Regulus, his eyes still closed, turned away and drew the covers over his head. " _Regulus_. It's _Regulus_. It's not hard to say."

Regulus absolutely hated it when Sirius — because only Sirius would do something so unnecessarily annoying — shortened his name. Three syllables weren't much — was there really a need to cut it down to two?

Sirius plonked down on his bed as if he belonged there, jolting Regulus awake. "Aww, look at you. You think you're too old for baby names."

"I am too old," grumbled Regulus. Sirius was little more than a year older, but he never had any sort of childish nickname, certainly not one as terrible as _Reggie_.

Sirius snorted. "Well, are you coming or not?"

With some hesitation, Regulus unrolled from his cocoon and opened his eyes. Sirius was grinning down at him — a sure sign that there would be trouble, if their parents caught them.

"Where?" said Regulus.

"Where else?"

Regulus sat up, now truly awake. He didn't approve of many of Sirius' ideas, and even less were the ones he would willingly partake in, but this was one of those few.

They crept out of the room, careful not to wake the snoring portraits above their heads, and hurried off to the garden as quickly and as silently as they could.

For as long as Regulus could remember, his family — including his cousins and aunts and uncles, even mad old Uncle Alphard — spent the summer in Dartmoor, in the Black family country house. Not that there was much to do in Canopus Hall, besides afternoon teas and family dinners. The entire land was invisible to Muggle eyes, and the manor itself was protected with wards and enchantments that meant only a Black by blood could go beyond its doors.

According to Andromeda, there was a good chance Grandfather would sell the estate before Sirius was old enough to inherit. She had told Regulus and Sirius this, one summer night when they had snuck off to stargaze.

"Gramps hates me that much, does he?" Sirius drawled, looking amused.

"It's because of politics and things," said Andromeda. "You're too young to understand."

"Too young or too Gryffindor?"

Andromeda rolled her eyes. "Too young. Not everything's about you, moron. You haven't a clue about what's going on in our family."

"Why?" asked Regulus. "What's going on with the family?"

Andromeda gave him a small sad smile. "You'll understand when you're older. Our world is blood and names, and we all have to pay our debts one day. It'll be our penance."

That had been a year ago and still Regulus didn't know what Andromeda had meant.

It hadn't bothered Sirius, as far as Regulus could tell, but then Sirius never liked Canopus Hall anyway. Regulus didn't blame him. Even during the day, even when sunlight streamed through the windows, the halls were gloomy, the walls a drab, faded colour and lined with crotchety portraits. The rooms, while elegant, had an air of melancholy about them, as if all the light inside had been swallowed by darkness, as if the curtains were drawn close even when they weren't. Canopus Hall was like Grimmauld Place, in that way — bleak and grim and full of history, teeming with ghosts and shadows.

But that was inside the manor. Outside, the sprawling grounds of the estate was like a world of its own. A world of uneven ground, of craggy tors and gnarled cairns, of rolling hills and mist-filled hollows.

Here, the sky was awake. More than that, the sky was _alive_. They were far enough from the city that the stars could shine unimpeded, and several moments passed in a sort of reverential silence as they stared up at the sky, sitting on one of the giant boulders sprinkled all over the russet and olive slopes of the land.

"Have you been practicing?" said Sirius after a while, gesturing to the open sky. "It'd be embarrassing, wouldn't it, if you got all the names wrong."

"I won't!" cried Regulus, horrified at the thought. "'Course I've got it memorized!"

Regulus couldn't remember a time when he didn't practice. Mother and Father expected him and Sirius to know the stars and constellations by heart. They were named for the stars, their family. The sky was their tapestry, and to know their history, their ancestors, was to know the stars themselves.

Sirius looked sombre. "You better," he said sternly. "Don't know how I could ever show my face in Astronomy, if you made a mess of it. I'd never be able to look at you the same."

Regulus went cold with dread.

Sirius burst into laughter. "Ha! Your face!" he crowed. "I'm joking, obviously. You, mess up? Never!"

Regulus scowled as heat rose to his cheeks. "I know that!"

Sirius just kept on laughing, wrapping an arm around Regulus' shoulders and ruffling his hair. Regulus tried to get away, but it was hard to keep a straight face. It wasn't often they had moments like this, not since Sirius returned from Hogwarts with stories of his friends and new ideas that made their family dinners more tense than before. Lately it felt as though there was a distance between them, with Regulus and their parents on one side and Sirius on the other. It seemed to grow with each passing day, and Regulus didn't know how to bridge the gap.

But not here, not now, not in this quiet, peaceful place. Here, in their own corner of the world, Regulus could pretend that nothing had changed, and that everything would always be as it was.

Somewhere from inside the manor, he heard the distant chiming of a grandfather clock. It was midnight now, the witching hour — a new day, a new beginning.

Sirius heard it too, and he grinned, as bright as the star he was named after.

"Happy birthday, little brother. How does it feel to be all grown up?"

* * *

Regulus woke feeling as if he was on fire.

His eyes snapped open as he bolted upright, his heart thumping in his chest and his head pounding a painful, irregular rhythm. Drawing in a gasping breath, he blinked blearily around his room — _not right, too small, unfamiliar_ — and tried desperately to get his bearings straight. It was a second before he realized his cheeks were wet, and another second before he realized he was crying.

What the hell had he been dreaming about?

There was a tempest of emotions swirling in him that he couldn't explain. A crushing, aching loneliness in the pit of his stomach that felt as if it belonged to someone else. He was scared, but he didn't know why. He was angry, burning with the knowledge that fate had stripped him bare of everything but his rage and fear.

And he was sad. Desperately sad, as if he had lost something important.

 _Even stars burn out_ , he thought, and he didn't know where it came from, why the words made sobs rise in his throat.

Regulus buried his face in his hands and wept, wracked by a grief he couldn't understand.

* * *

If his fatigue showed the next morning, Sofia was polite enough not to comment as she showed him what she had found.

"This is . . . a lot," said Regulus, looking over the books and notes laid out in front of him.

"It's everything I could find," said Sofia. "You didn't exactly specify what you wanted, so I wasn't sure what you had in mind but —" she picked out one of the books from the haphazard pile and turned it over in her hands, "I went with the legends — local myths and folklore, there's loads of them, turns out. The Barghest of York, the Gurt Dog of Somerset, the Gytrash in the North, the Padfoot of Wakefield —"

"Padfoot?" said Regulus, startled.

Sofia nodded and opened the book to show him an illustration of a monstrous looking black dog with glowing eyes, growling menacingly. "There are other names for them, other stories. Oldest one I could find dates back to the sixteenth century." She flipped to another page, this one showing pamphlets written in old-style calligraphy. "This story about the Black Shuck of Suffolk. It burst into a church during a storm, killed two people praying, then ran off leaving scorch marks on the floor. Apparently, they're still there to this day."

"So . . . it kills you? This dog, that's what it does?"

"Well," said Sofia, drawing the word out as she took another book and opened it to a page where the printed font was so small, it was nearly illegible. "Sort of? There's lots of stories, like I said. There are some variations, depending on how the locals tell it, but most of the time they're considered omens. Some say they're malevolent spirits, others say the opposite. There're some accounts that say they're guardians, that they protect lost travellers and guide their way at night. But then there's another — in Yorkshire, I think — that says if you see one, you die within a year."

Regulus slid the book away from him, feeling his mouth suddenly dry. "But they're — they're just stories, aren't they? They're not real."

Sofia shrugged. "That depends on who you ask. Me, I think it's just superstition, but I'm sure there are some who believe in this sort of thing."

"What about these?" asked Regulus, pointing to the untouched books on the table.

"More stories," said Sofia. "The legends, they've been adapted a lot. _Jane Eyre_ , _Dracula_ — oh! This one — this one's a personal favourite." She showed him a book that looked rather worn around the edges, its red hardcover displaying faded gold letters and a scratched silhouette of a dog. "Don't tell me you've never heard of Sherlock Holmes. _Everyone's_ heard of Sherlock Holmes."

 _"The Hound of the Baskervilles_ ," he read aloud. "What's this about?"

"This one's inspired by one of the legends. A squire from Dartmoor who sold his soul to the Devil. When he died, black dogs showed up on his tomb, and every night his ghost would be seen leading the pack across the moor."

"Dartmoor?" repeated Regulus.

"Ever been?"

"Every summer. We have a manor there, my family."

Sofia gaped at him. "Really?" she said, loud enough that their supervisor threw them a warning look. "And I'm just hearing about this now? Bloody hell, I thought you said you live in a shite flat —"

"I do," said Regulus quickly, heat creeping up his face. "I — I was joking. I've never been to Dartmoor."

She stared at him with narrowed eyes, then she shook her head, chuckling. "All right, you had me fooled there. You sounded so sure . . ."

Because he had been. For a moment there, he had thought . . . but no, it didn't make sense. He didn't know where the words had come from, why he even said it.

"Thanks for this," said Regulus as he helped her return the books. "Sofia dela Cruz, you're a star."

Sofia laughed.

"I'm serious. You didn't have to go through all that trouble."

"It's nothing," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "I've got to show off my Lit degree somehow. . . . What's it for anyway? You never said."

"Nothing really," he answered, trying to keep his tone light. "I just — I thought it might be interesting, is all."

And Regulus left it at that.

* * *

Regulus was thinking about this as he left the library. Eager to avoid his flat, he decided to walk rather than take the Tube. He was wandering aimlessly and considering paying Rani a visit when he passed a newsstand. A headline on one of the papers caught his eye, and he picked it up to read a report on an ongoing murder investigation.

_Two children found dead on Dartmoor near Burrator Reservoir_

Sofia had mentioned the case at lunch, and she had been surprised when he had confessed he hadn't heard of it. In his defence, Regulus had taken to ignoring his television whenever he was at home, and he couldn't very well tell her why. Bad enough that he was hearing voices, he didn't need other people to tell him he was going mad. Ignorance was bliss and all that.

Apparently, the investigation had received quite a lot of publicity. The children, suspected to be siblings, had died of mysterious causes — which was a way of saying that the police had no idea what the children had died of. Autopsy reports showed that there was nothing wrong with the bodies — it was like they had simply dropped dead for no reason. More baffling still was the way the children were dressed, in Halloween costumes in the middle of September, with no identification, no clues as to who they were.

As if they didn't exist.

"What I want to know," said a local who lived near the crime scene, "is where are the parents? Why haven't they come forward?"

Regulus wondered that too. With so many confusing details, it was no small wonder that the news had been so widespread.

And it had happened in Dartmoor.

Dartmoor, where legends of the Grim was part of the local folklore. Dartmoor, where Regulus' non-existent family had a non-existent country house. Dartmoor, where Regulus had never been.

And yet he had made that stupid, thoughtless claim to Sofia. He didn't know why he did it, where the thought had come from, but somehow it came out anyway. . . .

Maybe it was because of Sofia's stories, but Regulus couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of disquiet. Dartmoor was important, somehow. His gut feeling told him so, as ridiculous as it sounded. Dartmoor meant something, just like the black dog that followed him. Just like the voices he kept hearing. Just like the dreams that haunted him.

"Am I running a library then?" said the old woman behind counter.

"Sorry," said Regulus. He reached for his wallet. "Distracted."

"Always the worst tragedy, innit, when it's kids," said the woman, nodding at the article.

"Yeah," muttered Regulus. "It's not right, targeting children. It's not fair."

The old woman smiled sadly. "You get a lifetime, son. No one said it'd be fair."

* * *

Sirius always hated the family tree.

"Always pure," he would say, each time he looked at the tapestry, a bitter note embedded in the words. The bitterness seemed sharper after he returned from Hogwarts, and it showed on his face as Regulus ran his fingers over the rough fibres of the cloth, tracing the golden threads that formed his own name.

Regulus didn't understand how Sirius could hate it so, how his brother could feel anything but awe at the heaviness of centuries embroidered here, in this very room. It was a piece of the sky they could touch, this vast maze of delicately scripted letters, the names of shining stars and constellations that made up their family.

The summer after his first year, Sirius accused Regulus of deliberately ignoring the burn marks. He was rather mad about it, and Regulus didn't understand that either. Even if Regulus was doing it on purpose, then so what? These marks were the disowned and the ostracised — why shouldn't Regulus ignore them?

"Isn't that the point?" said Regulus.

"You don't get it," muttered Sirius.

And perhaps Regulus didn't, but he knew better than to argue the point. Last time he tried, Sirius only dismissed him, scoffing and drawling, _What do you know, Reg? Run along now and play with your terrible friends._

It wasn't like Regulus meant to do it. He didn't mean to ignore the burns when he perused the tapestry. He just didn't notice them, that was all. Sometimes he forgot they were there. That wasn't so horrible, was it?

They were like bogeymen, these burn marks. Stories Regulus grew up hearing, one of the many designed to scare him and Sirius to obedience. _If you don't do as you're told, then you'll be blasted off. If you don't listen, then you'll be disowned. If you're not good, then you are not a Black._

The lesson was simple: do not bring dishonour on the family or you will be pruned off the tree.

Like all bogeymen, the stories never felt real. Certainly, Regulus knew they were, that he had relatives who had been removed from the tapestry for acting out of turn, that the same fate would befall him if he did the same — but they didn't _feel_ real.

It was a distant concept to him, being disowned. Like the thought of death and dying stars. He knew they were real, that they could happen and did happen, but the idea seemed so far away that he couldn't imagine it.

Until the summer before his third year, when Regulus didn't need to.

Before they left for Dartmoor, the whole family gathered in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place. They stood before the family tree as Uncle Cygnus undid the ritual binding Andromeda to the tapestry, and the tapestry to her. They watched in silence — Narcissa with red-rimmed eyes, Bellatrix with a bored look, Sirius with uncharacteristic stillness, all the rest of them with pale and drawn faces — as Uncle Cygnus brandished his wand, and all that was left of Andromeda was a small charred hole where her name used to be. Mother's hand was on Regulus' shoulder throughout, fingers digging into his flesh as if she was performing a ritual of her own, binding Regulus to her side.

"Do you see?" said Mother when it was done, her grip tightening. Sirius was on her other side, caught in the same bruising hold, his expression guarded. "Everything ends, everything has its time. Even stars burn out."

The hole was still smoking around the edges, filling the room with a strange rotting smell. Regulus felt his stomach churn, though whether it was because of the stink or the entire affair, he wasn't sure.

Something in him had shifted. Paradigms, perhaps, or the turn of the earth. An epiphany, shaking the foundations of all he knew.

 _All things end_ , thought Regulus. _Death can touch the sky_.

Not even the stars can stay alight forever _._

* * *

The first chance he got, Regulus chucked the wireless and put the television back in its box.

Yet he still heard them. The deep, croaking voice that sobbed and asked him to wake. The high, cold voice that demanded his fealty.

Some nights, he woke to hear these voices mingled with static. Other times, it was as if he was underwater, the sounds muffled and indistinct. There were times too when he heard them clearly, as if the voices were there — _actually_ there with him, and on these nights, Regulus felt as if he was playacting, reliving memories that weren't his.

He couldn't say if these voices were merely his imagination. If these were dreams becoming more and more vivid, so much so that it was hard to tell if he was asleep or awake.

Or maybe he was going mad.

Regulus wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

* * *

"What's wrong?" Rani asked him when he stopped by Luchino Caffe. Rani could always tell when the world was too much with Regulus, and even if she didn't understand what was bothering him, she usually gave decent, or at least decent-sounding, advice.

"I don't know what's real anymore," said Regulus, accepting the cup of tea Rani handed him. "Even less than usual. Did you hear about what happened in Dartmoor?"

Rani frowned at him, brows furrowed in concern, then glanced around the café. The only other person there was a thin, sallow-skinned man with a hooked nose, garbed in all black. He sat several tables away and appeared to be scowling down at his drink.

"Saw it on the news, yeah," said Rani, sliding into the booth across Regulus. "What about it?"

So Regulus told her. He told her about the dog he kept seeing, the voices he heard every time he was in his flat, his increasingly vivid dreams. He told her about the stories Sofia had found, the conversation they had after, and the instinctive strangeness he felt when he thought of Dartmoor.

Rani's frown deepened as he went on. When he had finished talking, she opened her mouth twice, then blinked, shook her head and said, "They're stories, Reg. Just stories. They don't mean anything."

Regulus bristled. "I never said they did."

"You were thinking it," she said gently, and he felt his irritation flare. "This Grim you say that's been following you about — how do you even know it's one dog? There's lots of strays all over London."

"It's the same dog," he insisted, struggling not to raise his voice. "Trust me, Rani. This thing, it's not an ordinary stray."

"So it's a coincidence you keep seeing it. That's all there is. Why're you so quick to jump to ghost stories?"

Regulus shook his head. "Well, what about the voices? The things I've been hearing, on the telly and the wireless —"

"Those are normal dreams, Reg," said Rani, even more gently. Her face was open and honest and worried, and for a fleeting terrible moment Regulus hated her.

He walked home that night with anger thrumming through his veins.

Of course Rani didn't understand. Why did he ever think she would? She knew _nothing_. How dare she look at him the way she did — silently judging him, thinking he was mad, _pitying_ him. He knew he was right; he wasn't insane. What he had been seeing and hearing, they were _real_. They didn't make sense to him, but they were real, and they meant something. They were important and he just needed to know why.

What did Rani know, really? How could she even begin to comprehend it all? Stupid ignorant _filth_ —

Regulus crashed into a man walking the other way, stumbled back, and realized that it was the sallow-skinned man from the café.

"They're real!" said Regulus, fierce and angry.

"So they are," the man said mildly.

It occurred to Regulus belatedly what he had just said aloud, and that his shoulder was throbbing faintly from running into the man.

"Sorry," said Regulus, embarrassment worming its way up his neck and into his cheeks. "I didn't mean — sorry. I'm not mad, either. Sorry to bother you."

He turned and left as swiftly as possible.

* * *

When little Amelia Taylor returned to the library, trading her stack of books for another, Regulus reminded himself not to make it weird. He was a grown man, for heaven's sake — talking to a small child for five minutes, tops, shouldn't be so hard.

"So why all the space books?" said Regulus, grasping at the first topic that came to mind.

Amelia ducked her head and scuffed her toe against the carpet. "My dad got me a telescope for my birthday. We've been stargazing."

Inexplicably, he felt a horrible pang of something like nostalgia, something like regret. "That sounds lovely."

She looked up, her smile shy but no less eager than the last time they spoke. She took a deep breath, as though preparing to make a solemn announcement. "I'm gonna be an astronaut."

She said it with such quiet conviction that Regulus was a little jealous. It was ridiculous, being jealous of an eleven-year-old, but a child's ambition was an uncomplicated thing, not bogged down with details or logistics or expectations. As a child, you could believe in anything, even the impossible.

"Well, good for you," said Regulus, smiling. "You'll get to see the stars up close."

"I'll keep an eye out for you," said Amelia cheekily. "Your star, that is."

"For Sirius, too," he added without thinking. "He's hard to miss."

She grinned. "The Dog Star! That one's my favourite."

 _The brightest star in the sky_. The words rose in Regulus' mind, unbidden. _Everything else fell in his orbit, unnoticed and unasked for._

The thought tapped at something inside him — there was something missing, something he couldn't place. Regulus didn't know what it was, only that it was important, impossibly important, and thinking of it filled him with a great swell of sadness, mingled with an odd sting of resentment.

Amelia was still beaming at him as she gathered her books.

"I won't forget," she said, and then she left with a spring in her step.

* * *

Weeks passed before Regulus decided, _fuck it_ , and approached the dog — Grim or Barghest or Padfoot — whatever the hell it was called.

He did it not so much out of a newfound sense of bravery, but because the day was bright and sunlit. Not the sort of day Regulus would have expected a death omen to show up and drag him to hell. Normally he only ever saw the dog at night or when the skies were particularly gloomy and overcast.

"Am I going to die?" said Regulus as he slowly moved towards the side street where the dog was casually sitting. He was careful to keep a good distance between them — close enough that he could see it, but far enough that he could probably run and scream for help, if it decided to pounce him. "Is that why you're here? Is it my time? Always thought I'd live to my fifties, at the very least."

The dog only stared at him, looking utterly relaxed and oddly attentive. Not even growling or barking but just . . . staring. Like it was studying him too.

Did dogs do that? Were they supposed to do that?

"Well? Am I dying or . . ."

Regulus wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Up close and in broad daylight, the dog didn't seem as terrifying as he thought it would be. Less a spectre of death, and more of a . . . well, an actual dog. A huge one that could probably tear his limbs apart, but still.

 _A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen_.

Not this one though.

"You're not a Grim, are you? Ever been to Dartmoor, by any chance?"

The dog stayed where it was, but it raised its head from its paws, its ears perked up. Regulus sagged a little and ran his hands over his face, like this would wake him up from the wild thoughts his imagination had built.

It was just a dog. And, with the way it was just sitting there and looking at him, not even a particularly scary one at that.

Maybe Rani was right after all.

"Bloody hell," said Regulus, sighing. "I'm talking to a fucking dog."

It was pouring buckets the next day, as if to make up for yesterday's unusually sunny weather, and Regulus was drenched to the skin the moment he stepped outside his flat. The rain was bouncing off his leather jacket, his boots splashing in the puddles lining the streets as the water dripped off the ends of his sopping hair into his eyes. More than a little irked, he stopped on a street corner and squinted up at the grey sky.

"If this is all in my head," he said aloud, "I could do without the heavy-handed metaphors. I'd like a bit of sun, thanks."

"It isn't."

Regulus whirled around. Behind him, crouched low upon a store stoop and completely dry, was a shabbily dressed man. He looked about Regulus' age, though his brown hair was flecked with grey.

"Not what?" said Regulus.

"In your head," said the man, with a Welsh lilt. Rural. Middle-class, most likely lower. Ill-fitting clothes. Filthy little —

Regulus laughed, and if it sounded slightly unhinged — well, he didn't exactly feel completely sane these days. Hearing voices could do that to a person.

"Oh, brilliant," said Regulus irritably. "Do you often talk to nutters on the street?"

The man's eyebrows rose, and only then did Regulus notice the man's sickly pallor and the tired lines of his face. Regulus couldn't help but wince in sympathy, wondering if this man was as exhausted as he felt.

"Sorry," said Regulus. "That was a bit rude, wasn't it?"

"Little bit, yeah," said the man with a wry smile. "Rough morning?"

Rough couple of weeks, more like.

"Yeah," said Regulus, and moved to turn away when the man spoke again.

"I think I've seen you before," he said conversationally. "You work at the library, don't you? It's . . . Regulus, isn't it?"

Regulus nodded and regarded the man warily. Something about the man struck a strange yet familiar chord right below his throat, but Regulus was certain he had never seen him in the library before. Granted, it wasn't as if he recognized everyone who came in, and yet . . . he was sure they had met before, just not there . . . but somewhere else . . .

" _You_!" Regulus realized suddenly. "You tried to mug me!"

The man blinked. "Pardon?"

"Well, you didn't, actually," amended Regulus. "But I thought you were going to. It was some months ago now, you just — I don't know, you grabbed my arm and tried to drag me off somewhere."

The man stared at him for a long moment. "I think you may have me confused with someone else."

Regulus frowned, feeling a vague sense of unease. He knew he didn't have the best memory, but the encounter was clear in his mind. He remembered it more vividly than he remembered many of his childhood memories. He wasn't sure what it said about him, remembering something so inconsequential, but he was so sure . . . he knew it was the same man . . .

 _Yes_ , it was the same man. Something about the encounter had stuck with Regulus. He didn't know what it was, but it had felt remarkable enough that he had shared it with Rani. The man had said something then . . . he had said a name . . .

Regulus shook his head. He could feel another headache coming on. "Must have. Sorry about that."

The man shrugged. "I have one of those faces, I guess."

Regulus snorted. "Reckon I do too."

The feeling of unease stayed with him throughout the day. At work, he found himself glancing at the doors so often that Sofia asked him why he appeared so twitchy, and he could only answer her with a shrug.

How did one tell a co-worker that, for whatever reason, he kept expecting the stranger on the street to appear at any moment? That he was still on the lookout for the black dog that followed him everywhere he went? That he was inexplicably convinced they were omens of some sort? How did one even begin to explain the odd things that had been happening?

One simply didn't.

God, he really was a nutter.

* * *

In hindsight, Regulus should have seen it coming. Didn't Sirius say he would do it? Hadn't he made these same threats before, summer after summer? But at the time, Regulus had thought they were just that — mere threats — and so he excused himself from the dinner table and retreated to his room like always, trying to hide his exasperation at the whole thing.

Arguing over politics was nothing new, and the screaming matches between Sirius and Mother were so commonplace that it was routine by now. Even Regulus had his own role to play: advice Sirius not to try anything before entering the dining room, shoot warning looks at Sirius when Mother or Father started talking, kick his shin under the table when Sirius pretended not to notice, more discreet glares when Sirius inevitably answered back, finish his dinner as his parents and Sirius shouted over his head, and then leave. Repeat the next evening, until the end of the holidays, and then do it all again the next year.

Sometimes Regulus didn't even know why he bothered trying to play peacemaker. He was clearly terrible at it, and Sirius clearly wasn't going to listen. It was getting tiresome, these arguments, and Regulus often wondered how Sirius still had the energy to keep at it.

But then Sirius wasn't like him. When Sirius buried his feelings, they didn't disappear. They lay in wait, hidden deep inside him, piling on top of each other and coalescing into something volatile, something that would one day break through whatever veneer of calm and control he had. One day, Sirius was going to explode, and it would be Regulus who would have to pick up the pieces.

Their parents were like that too, Mother especially, though that particular trait never came out in Regulus's dealings with them. Strong emotions were reserved for his brother, they always have been. Sirius was the heir, after all, and Regulus was just the afterthought.

He resented Sirius for that, sometimes.

"How can you stand it?" said Sirius darkly. "How can you live with them?"

Sirius had been pacing the length of Regulus' bedroom since his fight with Mother had ended, muttering a litany of curses and obscenities under his breath — rather like Kreacher, but Regulus wasn't going to tell him that, with the mood he was in. Now, Sirius seemed too drained to continue with his complaints, but his eyes were still flashing dangerously. Regulus met his gaze easily, knowing Sirius' anger wasn't directed at him, never at him.

"It isn't hard," said Regulus. He was sitting at his desk, trying to get some of his homework done, but with all the shouting and with Sirius venting his frustrations at him, he hadn't made much progress. "Just don't be you about it."

Sirius gave him a withering look. "Brilliant advice, thanks. Don't know what I'd do without you, Reg."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "I mean it. Turn the other cheek, Sirius. Ignore them, don't argue, keep your mouth shut —"

"Oh yeah, easy peasy, that." Sirius sighed and flopped down on Regulus' bed, covering his face with his hands. "I don't know how much more of this I can take," he said quietly, his voice muffled through his fingers.

"Well, you don't have a choice."

"'Course I do. There's always one."

Regulus snorted. "Not that one though."

Sirius let his arms fall to his sides and stared up at the ceiling, but he didn't say anything. Regulus sat up, startled, and had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying, _You can't be serious_. He knew full well what Sirius would say in reply if he did, and then he would never get an honest answer.

Surely Sirius didn't mean . . . not _that . . ._

"If you go," said Regulus, with forced lightness, "they'll never let you come back."

Sirius glanced at him, a wry grin flashing across his face. "That's the idea, isn't it?" He propped himself up on his elbows and said, more grimly, "You don't believe me."

"Should I?" said Regulus, his tone carefully neutral. "Where would you even go?"

"The Potters. They'll take me in."

"You'll live with them? For the rest of your life?"

Sirius set his jaw defiantly. "Better there than here."

For a moment, Regulus could only stare, his heart pounding uncomfortably. He never knew what to think when Sirius was like this — grave, dangerous, burning with righteous anger. The gap between them — this distance that had begun when Sirius left for Hogwarts and growing ever since — suddenly felt impossibly vast, and Regulus didn't have the slightest idea how to respond.

"Fuck off, Sirius."

It was Sirius' turn to stare, gaping soundlessly for several seconds before he broke into peals of laughter.

"Reggie!" he exclaimed, pressing his hands to his heart, his face breaking into unguarded delight. "What a lovely addition to you ever extensive vocabulary."

"It's hardly new," said Regulus. The boys in his dormitory could attest to that, even if he rarely said it aloud. He wouldn't dare use it in public so freely — words had power, and it was a matter of how one wielded them. Just like names, just like spells.

Still, Regulus couldn't help but feel a little proud, seeing Sirius so taken aback. It was always something of a victory, to catch his brother off guard.

They grinned at each other and fell into a comfortable silence.

"I could do it, you know," said Sirius eventually, in an unusually pensive tone. "Just imagine it — no more rules, no more fighting, no more of their bigotry."

Regulus watched Sirius lying spread-eagled on his back on the bed, a little unnerved by how thoughtful he sounded. Regulus tried to imagine it, and he wondered where he fit in this picture Sirius had painted. Did he belong at all, in the fantasy Sirius had conjured? Or had his place been taken completely by Potter and all the rest of Sirius' friends?

"Can I ask you something?" said Regulus cautiously. Sirius, still on his back, made some vague gesture with his hand, and Regulus went on, "Why do you get so worked up about . . . all this? Why do you care so much?"

"About what?"

" _Them_ — the Mudbloods and blood traitors. I'm sure they're not all bad, of course, but are they really worth all the trouble?"

Sirius shot off the bed so suddenly that Regulus jumped. The laughter on his face had faded, and he fixed Regulus with a piercing glare, his expression contorted in a look of barely restrained fury. Regulus shrank back, more in confusion than genuine fear. Never before had he been on the receiving end of such a look, never before had he been the focus of Sirius' rage.

And then Sirius deflated, his anger gone as quickly as it came. He seemed to fall in on himself, his shoulders slumping as he took a step backward, toward the door. His eyes darted around Regulus' face, burning with a quiet intensity that was different from before — though how, Regulus couldn't say.

"You too then," said Sirius softly. "The one thing holding me back."

For the second time that evening, Regulus was at a loss for words. Before Regulus could think to ask what he meant, Sirius abruptly turned and left, slamming the door behind him with a resounding thud.

The same thing happened three nights later. Sirius walked away, leaving nothing more than a burning scorch mark in his wake.

A dead star, an empty space on the tapestry.

One less light in the night sky.

* * *

The next time Regulus saw the dog was on a wet, cool evening in November. Winter was looming near, and while he wasn't looking forward to returning to his flat, he knew he couldn't stay out for so long, with the weather the way it was.

"Oh, come on now," said Regulus, huddling under his coat as the wind continued to howl around him. He frowned at the dog blocking his path, more irritated than anything. He just knew he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. His dreams were always worse after his encounters with this bloody dog, hellhound or not.

Regulus tried to step around it, but the dog quickly leapt to its feet and growled, a deep menacing sound that made him step back in alarm.

"Are you threatening me?" he demanded.

Great. He was talking to it again. Probably best not to raise his voice at a dog this size.

"Regulus Black."

Regulus turned. There, leaning against a doorway, was the man from before — the ill-looking Welsh bloke with greying hair.

"How do you know my name?" said Regulus. Something cold was unfurling in his stomach, and he knew it had nothing to do with the rain.

"We don't mean to alarm you," said the man gently. "But give us a listen, all right? We just have a few questions."

Regulus tensed, his eyes darting around the street nervously. Deserted — because of course it would be, no one in their right mind would still be out at this hour when it was raining pitchforks. Fuck.

"You've always had strange things happen, haven't you, Regulus? Things that didn't make sense, things you couldn't explain."

Regulus felt like he had been plunged in cold water. How could he — did someone tell him? Did Rani? But she wouldn't, why would she — but how could this man know? Or — was he imagining this just now? This man, the black dog — what if that was all they were, just his imagination, just like every other peculiar thing that had happened to him?

 _Not real_. This wasn't real. He was going to wake up, any second now.

Regulus swallowed his reaction, covering with a half laugh. "I don't know what you're on about, mate."

"But you do," said the man, almost unintelligibly quieter than the rain. "The dreams you've been having — they're not just dreams. You know it too, don't you?"

Regulus shoved his clenched hands in the pockets of his coat, trying to squash the tide of sour fear rising inside his ribs. "How do you know my name?" he asked again, his voice sticking.

A second's hesitation and then the man pushed himself away from the doorway and out into the street. Regulus had a wild, fleeting thought that the man would stay perfectly dry, but no, he was as soaking wet as Regulus in an instant.

"We know what they are, your dreams," said the man. "If you'd like, we can tell you more. You're not mad, Regulus."

"That's good, then," said Regulus. "I keep hearing voices, the telly talks directly to me, half the time I can't tell when I'm awake or dreaming. You're either a — a figment, or you've been stalking me so you could wind me up for a laugh." He shook his head, frustrated. "Is that it? Is that what this is about?"

"No," said the man, approaching him slowly, cautiously. "You _know_ what we're talking about. We can help you, give you answers. . . . Don't you want to understand what this all means? Don't you want answers?"

This was the part, Regulus knew, where he ought to realise the man was bonkers and politely excuse himself and bolt. Instead Regulus just stood there, shivering a little in the rain.

" _We_ ," said Regulus hoarsely. "You keep saying that. Who's _we_?"

The man opened his mouth to reply just as Regulus felt a hand grip his shoulder from behind. The next thing Regulus knew, he was being stretched in all directions, pushed and pulled and pressed all at once, and suddenly he couldn't breathe, like something had closed around his lungs and was squeezing tight, and then —

His feet slammed on the ground. Regulus had only half a moment to register that he was no longer standing on the rainy street, before he was seized by the collar of his coat and slammed hard against a wall. There was another man in front of him, with a gaunt, sunken face, grey eyes wild and burning.

"How are you wearing his face?" snarled the man. Regulus absently noted the faint scent of stale drink before the man started shaking him, his crazed face inches from his own. "Who are you, you fucking bastard? How are you wearing my brother's face?!"

Regulus' mind blanked. He felt something heavy press against his chest as he stared at this man, this stranger who didn't feel like a stranger. It was the eyes, Regulus decided — he knew those eyes. It was the same ones he saw every day, staring back at him in the mirror.

There was a loud crack, like a car backfiring, and then the first man — the Welsh one in shabby clothes — appeared out of thin air. Regulus, still struggling to get his bearings, could only gape as Welsh Bloke rushed towards the grey-eyed man, trying and failing to pull him away from Regulus.

What the fuck.

Jesus Christ, what the actual fuck.

"Stop this now," said Welsh Bloke sharply. "We agreed — this isn't the plan! You know what Severus said —"

"I don't care what _Snivellus_ said!" growled the man still crowding Regulus, pinning him to the wall. "He's lying! Regulus is dead and this is obviously a trick —"

"For God's sake, Sirius, think this through! Why would Severus lie about this? What could he possibly gain —"

"How the hell should I know!"

"Sirius," murmured another voice. "Like the star."

It was a moment before Regulus' brain finally caught up to him, and another before Regulus realized it was him who had spoken.

The man — _Sirius_ — looked at Regulus again. Those inexplicably familiar eyes still looked murderous, but he looked more pensive now, his grip on Regulus relaxing somewhat.

"Yes," said Sirius. "Like the star."

The world seemed to freeze as Regulus drew in a stuttering breath. He felt — he didn't know what he felt, only that his every nerve was tense, as if ready for a punch-up, and he was shaking, why was he shaking —

"Let me see," said Sirius, softer now, and somehow Regulus knew what he meant.

Very slowly, after a moment that felt like ages, Regulus offered his left arm. Sirius reached for it, hand closing around his wrist, and drew up his sleeve.

Long puckered scars ran up the length of Regulus' forearm, old jagged cuts that healed long ago, and yet still looked red and raw. In the spaces between the cuts were splotches of ink, a tattoo that had been hacked into pieces with angry slashes, so mutilated that it was no longer recognizable.

But Regulus remembered. The skull and the snake, shining black ink that writhed and slithered and _burned_.

Sirius sucked in a sharp breath. "What happened?"

A car accident. It had been a car accident. Regulus had lost control of the wheel and he fell in a lake and —

"Blood sacrifice," Regulus heard himself say. He wasn't sure what made him say such a thing, where the idea had come from, but it sounded right. "The Dark Lord wanted a sacrifice."

Sirius didn't say anything for a long while, looking at Regulus straight in the eye as if he was searching for something. Whether he found it, Regulus didn't know, but Sirius must have seen something, because his expression turned as hard as stone.

"You ran," he said at last, his tone harsh and unyielding. "You left."

Rage seared through Regulus with a suddenness that surprised him. He couldn't remember ever being this angry before, but the feeling rose in him, churning and spreading through every inch of him until he forgot about his fear, his wariness, the strangeness of it all. There was a throbbing in his head that Regulus fought to ignore, focusing instead on Sirius, on his anger.

 _How dare he?_ What gave Sirius the right to judge him? How could he stand there and condemn Regulus' actions? He wasn't there, he didn't know why Regulus had done what he did, he was gone, he had —

"So did you," said Regulus coldly. "You abandoned me. You chose your side and you _abandoned_ me."

Sirius' face drained of colour, looking as though Regulus had hit him. He let go of Regulus, his hands hanging slack at his side.

But Regulus continued to lean against the wall. "It should have been you," he said through the fog in his mind. "Everything that happened — Mother and Father, they wanted — it should have been _you_ , but you — you left us behind and I was — I didn't — I didn't know, I didn't know, and you just — _you left me._ "

It was difficult to think now. His vision was blurring, and the pain in his head continued, like drums pounding in the back of his skull. Image after image raced through his mind, memories that weren't his own but were, at once real and unreal, they came to him in flickering fragments: a sprawling tapestry, a dilapidated manor in the vast moorlands, the pale red-eyed man, the cold damp cave, the black waters —

There was a lump in his throat he couldn't swallow, and in between short, hiccupping breaths, he realized that he was still shaking, that there were hands easing him gently back against something soft, that someone was speaking to him in gentle, calming tones —

"Go to sleep, Reg, it's all right. I came back, see? I'm here, I came back."

The voice sounded far away, too low and muffled, but the words followed Regulus as everything went black.

* * *

The months passed by in a blur. Regulus wasn't sure how so much of it did without him noticing.

After the cave, he spent weeks fading in and out of consciousness, finding Kreacher tending to him each time he crawled back to awareness. The only times Kreacher left Regulus' side was when he needed to attend to Mother, and those instances were few and far between compared to the hours he spent with Regulus.

Bedridden and too weak to hold a book, Regulus had only his thoughts to keep himself busy, and they always led back to the Dark Lord's Horcrux, kept under his bed in an antique jewellery box. None of the books he had read could tell him how to destroy it. So far, all of his and Kreacher's attempts — fire, curses, corrosive potions, even pounding it with a bloody hammer — had done nothing to damage it, and Regulus was beginning to doubt they even could.

Even if they did succeed at destroying the Horcrux, what then? What would happen after? Regulus had no delusions of his own usefulness — he wasn't much of a fighter, nor was he any good at duelling. Should he go to Dumbledore's resistance group, he would only be accepted into the fold as a spy. It didn't matter which side of the war he was on; both would expect him to return to the Dark Lord. Not exactly an appealing prospect, after all the trouble he went through to get away.

This train of thought eventually led to daydreams of leaving the war and Britain behind. He could go anywhere, move to Greece or Switzerland, or even leave Europe altogether. Move to another continent, cross seas and oceans. Forget the war. Forget the Horcrux. Perhaps that was the solution: he should simply escape, abandon Britain, and leave the wizarding world to its fate.

Or perhaps he should return the locket. He could go back to the cave and lie in the lake, and he could rest there among the dead. Perhaps if he didn't fight the Inferi, it wouldn't be painful. He would simply close his eyes and sleep in a bed made of water — quiet, easy, peaceful.

The more he entertained these possibilities, the more it became clear to him that Kreacher was to blame for his predicament. If Kreacher hadn't saved him from the Inferi, if Kreacher had simply let him drown, then he wouldn't be worrying about which course of action to take.

If Kreacher had simply died in the cave, surely as the Dark Lord had intended, then Regulus wouldn't be worrying about the blasted locket at all.

Regulus felt even more restless at night, when the long and dark hours were filled with uneasy dreams. They followed him like slithering snakes, leaving him feeling as though he was being probed. As if somebody was watching him, holding him in the dark, with cold hands closed around his wrist and a soothing voice whispering in his ear.

Always, he woke feeling exhausted and drained, and Kreacher's smothering only served to make him more irritable. The attention chafed, and soon Regulus began to resent Kreacher's company and to crave the uninterrupted silence that followed Kreacher's departure.

He craved it like he had never craved anything. Because Kreacher should have followed his orders and left him behind. Because Kreacher should have let him die, should have let him _sleep_. Because this whole ordeal — betraying the Dark Lord, stealing the locket, hiding from the Death Eaters — had been a mistake.

And now, because of his damned house-elf, the world had shrunk to his bedroom, and here he was: weak, useless, and broken.

One morning, his frustration rose to its breaking point. Regulus couldn't remember much of what he said, only that he had railed against Kreacher, hurling accusations and insults until his throat was raw from shouting and Kreacher was holding back sobs. He had thrown the locket at Kreacher's feet and had ordered Kreacher to leave and never come back.

The next day, Kreacher didn't return. Rather than the balm Regulus had looked for, the silence was torture, and the panic was as vivid and terrible as the Cruciatus. There was a shroud inside him, a heavy gloom that must have weighed a hundred pounds, for how light he felt after Kreacher had left with the locket. It was still there, this weight, but the darkness that had engulfed him had retreated, just enough that now Regulus understood what he had done.

He stared out his bedroom window, hands white knuckled at his sides, and withered with shame. The only one who cared for him, the only one who had never abandoned him — and Regulus had pushed him away.

It was a crucible burning away his every pretence: that he had worked as hard as he could, that he had betrayed the Dark Lord for the right reasons. He had been lying to himself all along, telling himself that he had been brave, that he had been like Sirius.

The simple truth was that Regulus had gone to the cave to die — not because he was noble or brave, but because he was a coward, trying to eschew responsibility.

But now that the locket was gone, that Kreacher was gone, he felt no relief, no peace. Even more than when he got his Mark, Regulus felt the sharp sting of certainty that Sirius would have been disappointed in him. He was drenched in regret, twisted up with anger and fighting to justify himself and faltering in the knowledge that he was finally, truly alone.

He didn't want to be, he realized. Nor did he want to die, not after he had fought so hard to live.

And then Kreacher came back.

"I gave you orders," said Regulus in an expressionless voice. "I told you to leave."

Kreacher was silent for a moment, large innocent eyes regarding him. "Kreacher apologises, but Master Regulus gave other orders. Kreacher must obey Master Regulus."

"What other orders?"

"To not let Master Regulus go to the Dark Lord. Kreacher cannot follow Master Regulus' orders if Kreacher is not here."

Regulus looked away. There was a burning, prickling feeling in his eyes, and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it. "You've thought it through, haven't you? You and your bloody loopholes."

Kreacher bowed his head. "Kreacher does not know what Master Regulus means."

Almost without realizing it, Regulus threw his head back and laughed. It sounded strange to his ears, low and rusty with disuse, but it was real. It felt more real than anything ever had since the Mark, since Father died, since Sirius left.

"Thank you, Kreacher," he said softly. He could feel something stirring in his chest as he realized that Kreacher always came back — that he always would, when Sirius never did.

Though they spent most of the day in silence, it had eased into something almost comfortable. Regulus felt the tension in his shoulders loosen, gone in the same instant he found that it had been there all along.

Mornings felt like mornings again, and while the nights were still long, Regulus found himself caring about the war. He found himself caring about the future. For the first time in what felt like ages, his picture of the future didn't include his own tomb.

As Regulus recovered from his injuries, he marvelled at the odd sensation of having desires again, and he threw himself into his research with renewed fervour. It was easier to think now, without the Horcrux in the room with him, but he could still feel it at the back of his mind, its black tendrils twisting and creeping from somewhere deep within his home.

It couldn't stay here, not when it thrived off of darkness. And there was plenty of darkness in Grimmauld Place, filled as it was with ghosts and regrets.

It couldn't stay here, any more than Regulus could.

Looking back on the Dark Lord's grand speeches, the words he used when he spoke of his power, the favour he showed those in his inner circle, Regulus realized what he should have known before he went to the cave.

There were other Horcruxes. He didn't know how many there were, but if the Dark Lord was insane enough to split his soul once, then he was insane enough to do it again.

So Regulus planned. He researched. He lost himself in dark brooding thoughts.

And then, when he was strong enough to get up from his bed unaided, he left Grimmauld Place, carrying with him a piece of the Dark Lord's soul.

He left London and its shadows behind, until he could come back to face them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait! The chapters from here on out are considerably longer than the first — I didn't anticipate how much time they'd take to edit. Hope you guys enjoyed though! Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed so far!


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